By Leatrice Ynostrosa, Sage editor


My children have been cheated

by a world that won’t fully recognize them,

beautiful blonde strangers

who have more understanding of quinceañeras

than of sweet sixteens.


Society says they are privileged,

while their last name still holds them back

in everything but affirmative action.

They know so much of Mexican matanzas

and so little of block parties.


Their pale skin marks them racist;

they can’t relate to color

(cousins with skin from latte to espresso).

They dance cumbias and polkas

and stumble in their waltzes.


I weep for my children, stuck between races.

My husband’s blood gives them a family

that extends like supporting tree branches.

My blood marks them with suspicion,

born of their blue eyes.